What a Difference a Day Makes
by TartanLioness
Summary: On a cold February evening, Sam has a question she would like to ask.


Title: What a Difference a Day Makes

Author: TartanLioness

Summary: On a cold February evening, Sam has something she would like to ask.

As always, my gratitude to dancesabove and GiuliettaC without whom I'd never get any work done.

…

Christopher Foyle, formerly DCS Foyle of the Hastings Constabulary, was sitting at his dining table deep in thought, looking out into the dark courtyard beyond the frost-covered window. Across from him, his typewriter sat among untidy sheets of paper – evidence of Sam's haphazard filing technique. He absent-mindedly bit his lip, pondering what the next chapter of his book should include.

His thoughts were interrupted when his driver-turned-secretary entered the dining room, smiling cheerfully. The sight of her (and the cups of steaming tea she was carrying) made him readily smile back.

After setting their tea on the table, Sam stepped back and clasped her hands in front of her.

"I was wondering, sir… are you in a particular hurry this evening?"

"Erm, no, not particularly. Why?" he asked, taking a long swig of his tea.

"I was hoping you'd like to have dinner with me."

"Dinner?" he repeated, confused. All at once he remembered their exchange from years ago, and teased her, "Are you asking me out, Miss Stewart?"

He fully expected her to grin and confess the real reason for the invitation; instead, her face fell slightly and a shy expression overtook her.

"Yes, sir. I know tradition allows for a proposal of marriage, but I wanted to give you the opportunity to say no without having to buy me a dozen pairs of gloves."

"M-marriage? Gloves? Sam, what are you talking about?"

"It's the 29th of February, sir. Leap Day."

"Leap…?— Let me get this right. Because it's _Leap Day_, you're asking me out?"

"Yes, sir. I am."

"For dinner."

"Mmh."

"In the romantic sense?"

"Yes." She fidgeted.

"Oh. Erm. Why?"

"Because I didn't want to alarm you with a proposal."

"No, I mean… why would you want to have a romantic dinner with _me_?"

"Why?" She looked flustered.

"Sam, I'm old enough to be your father!"

"I know."

"And surely you don't want for male attention."

"Not particularly, no."

"So… the question remains: Why me?"

"Why _not_ you, sir?"

"Sam!" Foyle exclaimed, exasperated.

"Sorry, sir. Really, you _are_ perfectly entitled to say no. I won't be hurt," she said, but Foyle didn't need to be a detective to notice that she looked utterly dejected and, indeed, hurt.

"I'm _not_ saying _no_, Sam," Foyle protested, rubbing his hand across his forehead in frustration—this whole conversation seemed somehow surreal. "I'm just… a little stunned. You are a young, attractive woman who, by your own admission, isn't short of male attention, and yet you are inviting your old boss out on Leap Day… effectively asking me if I would like to court you. Forgive me, but I can't quite… believe it."

Sam furrowed her brow and offered softly, "You underestimate yourself. _You_ may not see it, but working with you these last four years has certainly shown _me_ your calibre. You are the best man I have ever known; the kindest, cleverest person. And when you look at me in a certain way, or we happen to touch, I go all weak inside and my stomach ties itself into this rather lovely kind of knot. So yes, I suppose I _am_ asking if you'd like to court me. Though I thought we might start with dinner."

Foyle could only nod, wide-eyed, as the message sank in. It wasn't unusual for them to share a meal, but the implications of what Sam had told him left him speechless. What she was suggesting was not a casual, work-related dinner like the ones they had shared in the past. Implied in her invitation were a million little things, things he wasn't sure he was prepared for, as well as some he had thought he could only dream about: picking her up at her digs, strolling through Hastings arm-in-arm, perhaps even hand-in-hand… a meal shared with this lovely young woman dressed up specially for him… her dark eyes glittering in the candlelight… the freedom to hold her hand across the table… walking her home after dinner… being allowed to steal a goodnight kiss from her lips. But darker images also crowded his mind: his son's reaction to them, as well as her parents'… the people who would gossip about his darling Sam, call her names… growing old while Sam stayed youthful… fearing that she would resent him in his old age…

There were so many reasons to refuse her, to tell her in no uncertain terms that a personal relationship beyond friendship was out of the question between them; it would be much better for her.

But even as he resolved so say just that, he saw that she was biting her lip in apprehension, and his attention was suddenly and painfully jerked back to the very idea of kissing her, of holding her slender body in his arms as she returned his kiss with all her youthful enthusiasm. And—God help him—if she wanted him, if she wanted him to court her, how could he reject her? How _could_ he, when his whole being screamed for her, and all the emotions he thought he had buried suddenly clamoured for attention?

"Right," he said, finally. "Well, if you're absolutely sure this is what you want…?"

"It is," she assured him earnestly.

"In that case, I'd be delighted to have dinner with you."

"Really?" Sam was suddenly breathless with excitement.

He raised an eyebrow at the surprise in her voice. "Yes," he said. "Shall we?"

She nodded, blushing, her eyes following his movements as he stood and straightened his clothes. His fingers nimbly closed the top button of his waistcoat and neatened the red tie—her favourite, incidentally—before he shrugged on his jacket.

His gentle hand at the small of her back ushered her into the hallway, where Foyle took down her coat and held it open for her to slip into. He'd done exactly the same every evening when she went home, but suddenly the gesture held a different meaning, and Sam smiled softly to herself. As she buttoned up her woollen coat, she glanced over at Foyle, who was now putting on his own. Sensing her eyes on him, he turned to gaze warmly back at her, his eyes crinkling with contentment.

Suitably attired, they ventured out into the dark coldness of the February evening. As they walked down the steps leading away from the front door, Foyle offered his arm to Sam, and she took it happily.

Going out to dinner was nothing unusual for them, but this gesture of familiarity advertised to anyone who might care to notice that they were more than merely work-colleagues sharing a meal.

..

The air was even colder later in the evening, making them shiver slightly as they stepped from the warmth of the restaurant onto the pavement.

"I ought to walk you home, but your bicycle is still at my house," Foyle said hesitantly. Sam smiled jovially.

"Well, I asked _you_ out; seems only fair that I should walk you home, then." Her smile broadened into a cheeky grin, which in turn became an almost-stifled gasp when Foyle, instead of offering her his arm as he had earlier, grasped her hand in his. Sending her a sideways glance, as though he were checking to see if she minded, Foyle smiled crookedly and squeezed her hand softly.

Though both their hands were clad in warm gloves, the gesture was an intimate one, and Sam revelled in the feeling of his strong hold on her hand. Feeling bold, she shifted her fingers slightly, intertwining them with his.

They reached 31 Steep Lane all too quickly, and Sam reluctantly let go of her companion's hand as they walked up the steps. Foyle fished his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the front door; then he turned again to face Sam.

Feeling decidedly daring, Sam lifted a hand to rest it on his chest. Foyle raised an eyebrow, looking at her questioningly. Sam decided there and then that this day was a day for taking chances; a day for reversing the usual order of things. Hadn't she already asked him out and walked him home?

"Christopher," she said softly, his Christian name rolling easily off her tongue as if she had been saying it forever.

"Mmh?"

"May I… May I kiss you goodnight?"

He looked startled, as if he had expected anything but that. "Um. Yesss."

Nervously, Sam raised her gloved hand from his chest to his cheek, caressing it softly as she gazed into his eyes.

Foyle stood stock-still, his heart thumping heavily in his chest as he regarded her. Her eyes fluttered closed as she leaned closer and pressed her lips softly against his.

The kiss was gentle and sweet, and when she pulled away from him, her lips were forming a tiny, joyful smile and a slight blush was gracing her cheeks. Foyle felt himself smiling back at her, and pulled her into an embrace, winding his arms around her slight frame. She snuggled closer to him, resting her temple against his cheek.

"I love you," she murmured against the woollen cloth of his coat, and his eyes closed against the tide of joy that washed over him as he held her closer. The notion that Sam loved him—and her obvious joy at kissing him—left him almost breathless.

He lifted her face then, to brush at her lips anew, murmuring between kisses, "I love you too, my sweet, sweet Samantha."

FIN

A/N: On the tradition of Leap Day: According to Irish legend, St Bridget made a deal with St Patrick to allow women to propose to men every four years. The idea was to balance the traditional roles of men and women, just as Leap Day balances the calendar.

A man refusing a marriage proposal from a woman on Leap Day was expected to pay a penalty. In many European countries, especially in the upper classes, tradition dictates that any man who refuses a woman's proposal on February 29 has to buy her 12 pairs of gloves. Supposedly this is so that the woman can wear the gloves to hide the embarrassment of not having an engagement ring.


End file.
